What overwhelming joy compels my pen in these waning hours of our Lord's year two thousand and fourteen! I can't conjure a purer happiness than I feel now, having receipt of your offer that I, brooding curmudgeon that I am, take over editorship duties of Deadspin.

Our quaint little rag has all grown up, yes? And what large shoes I am to fill! How canst one don the mantle worn by such names as William Buckley Bryant Brandon Braunsworth Leitch, Thomas Forsyth Fordwith McFredrick Fenway Craggs, and A.J. Daulerio? I need only hope to do them service, however daunting that service appears to be.

Will Deadspin flourish in my tenure? Will we get our hands on another Brett Favre lewd leg? Will yet another girlfriend die who never lived at all? I can't and shan't say for certain, but I place my trust in journalistic providence that Timothy Lincecum finally opens a marihuana dispensary this year.

I should, however, say that—though I accept your offer whole-heartedly and zealously to boot—I have some misgivings about what Deadspin's head post might bring. Our rabidly loyal readership, while smart and at times funny, brings me worry; worry that those unaccustomed to Deadspin's divine ethos might find a "Raysism" or "FredExeter" or "Sad Shallow Echo" humorous. Are they humorous? What is a "Pleatherface," anyway? Surely, "RMJ=H" is—as they say—a "bot," yes? And whatever happened to Steve U? Or Bevraj of Choice, for that matter? Why, if our little daily can kill a Gamboa Constrictor, surely my health is at risk as well!

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These concerns are at present merely inklings. I have faith in our writers, and I look forward to instituting some changes upon 2015's commencement. For starters, Albert Burneko must draw up a recipe for honeyed doormice. I do enjoy a good doormouse. Also, I think it's time for Baron "Barry" Petchesky to be let go. And Ley. And Samer. A total house-cleaning is in order if we're going to start fresh in the new year.